the sun dipped low in the west; the great crowds hurrying hither and thither were beginning to thin out. new york's busy throngs were seeking their homes to enjoy the meal which they had worked for in factory and shop, for they were mostly working people who composed this seething mass of humanity.
slowly time dragged on. seven o'clock tolled from a far-off belfry. bernardine was getting frightfully nervous.
what could have happened to her handsome young husband, who had left her with the promise that he would return within the hour?
the policeman pacing to and fro on that beat watched her curiously each time he passed.
eight o'clock struck slowly and sharply. the wind had risen, and was now howling like a demon around the corners of the great buildings.
"what shall i do? oh, heaven, help me! what shall i do?" sobbed bernardine, in nervous affright. "he—he must have forgotten me."
at that moment a hand fell heavily on her shoulder.
looking up hastily through her tears, bernardine saw a policeman standing before her and eyeing her sharply.
"what are you doing here, my good girl?" he asked. "waiting for somebody? i would advise you to move on. we're going to have a storm, and pretty quick, too, and i judge that it will be a right heavy one."
"i—i am waiting for my husband," faltered bernardine. "he drove me here in a cab. i was to do a little shopping while he went to find a boarding-house. he was to return in an hour—-by six o'clock. i—i have been waiting here since that time, and—and he has not come."
"hum! where did you and your husband live last?" inquired the man of the brass buttons.
"we—we didn't live anywhere before. we—we were just married to-day," admitted the girl, her lovely face suffused with blushes.
"the old story," muttered the officer under his breath. "some rascal has deluded this simple, unsophisticated girl into the belief that he has married her, then cast her adrift."
"i am going to tell you what i think, little girl," he said, speaking kindly in his bluff way. "but don't cry out, make a scene, or get hysterical. it's my opinion that the man you are waiting for don't intend to come back."
he saw the words strike her as lightning strikes and blasts a fair flower. a terrible shiver ran through the young girl, then she stood still, as though turned to stone, her face overspread with the pallor of death.
the policeman was used to all phases of human nature. he saw that this girl's grief was genuine, and felt sorry for her.
"surely you have a home, friends, here somewhere?" he asked.
bernardine shook her head, sobbing piteously.
"i lived in the tenement house on canal street that has just been burned down. my father perished in it, leaving me alone in the world—homeless, shelterless—and—and this man asked me to marry him, and—and i—did."
the policeman was convinced more than ever by her story that some roué had taken advantage of the girl's pitiful situation to lead her astray.
"that's bad. but surely you have friends somewhere?"
again bernardine shook her head, replying, forlornly:
"not one on earth. papa and i lived only for each other."
the policeman looked down thoughtfully for a moment. he said to himself that he ought to try to save her from the fate which he was certain lay before her.
"i suppose he left you without a cent, the scoundrel?" he queried, brusquely.
"oh, don't speak of him harshly!" cried bernardine, distressedly. "i am sure something has happened to prevent his coming. he left his pocket-book with me, and there is considerable money in it."
"ah! the scoundrel had a little more heart than i gave him credit for," thought the policeman.
he did not take the trouble to ask the name of the man whom she believed had wedded her, being certain that he had given a fictitious one to her.
"there is a boarding-house just two blocks from here, that i would advise you to go to for the night, at least, young lady," he said, "and if he comes i will send him around there. i can not miss him if he comes, for i will be on this beat, pacing up and down, until seven o'clock to-morrow morning. see, the rain has commenced to come down pretty hard. come!"
there was nothing else to do but accept the kind policeman's suggestion. as it was, by the time she reached the house to which he good-naturedly piloted her, the fierce storm was raging in earnest.
he spoke a few words, which bernardine could not catch, to the white-haired, benevolent-looking lady who opened the door.
she turned to the girl with outstretched hands.
"come right in, my dear," she said, gently; "come right in."
"i was waiting for my husband, but somehow i missed him," explained bernardine. "the policeman will be sure to run across him and send him around here."
the lady looked pityingly at the beautiful young face—a look that made bernardine a little nervous, though there was nothing but gentleness and kindness in it.
"we will talk about that in the morning," she said. "i will show you to a room. the house is quite full just now, and i shall have to put you in a room with another young girl. pardon the question, but have you had your supper?"
"no," replied bernardine, frankly, "and i am hungry and fatigued."
"i will send you up a bowl of bread and milk, and a cup of nice hot tea," said the lady.
"how good you are to me, a perfect stranger!" murmured bernardine. "i will be glad to pay you for the tea and——"
the lady held up her white hand with a slow gesture.
"we do not take pay for any services we render here, my dear," she said. "this is a young girls' temporary shelter, kept up by a few of the very wealthy women in this great city."
bernardine was very much surprised to hear this; but before she could reply, the lady threw open a door to the right, and bernardine was ushered into a plain but scrupulously neat apartment in which sat a young girl of apparently her own age.
"sleep here in peace, comfort and security," said the lady. "i will have a talk with you on the morrow," and she closed the door softly, leaving bernardine alone with the young girl at the window, who had faced about and was regarding her eagerly.
"i am awfully glad you are come," she broke in quickly; "it was terribly slow occupying this room all alone, as i told the matron awhile ago. it seems she took pity on me and sent you here. but why don't you sit down, girl? you look at me as though you were not particularly struck with my face, and took a dislike to me at first sight, as most people do."
she was correct in her surmise. bernardine had taken a dislike to her, she scarcely knew why.
bernardine forgot her own trials and anxiety in listening to the sorrowful story of this hapless creature.
"why don't you try to find work in some other factory or some shop?" asked bernardine, earnestly.
"my clothes are so shabby, my appearance is against me. no one wants to employ a girl whose dress is all tatters."
a sudden thought came to bernardine, and she acted on the impulse.
"here," she said, pulling out her pocket-book—"here is ten dollars. get a dress, and try to find work. the money is not a loan; it is a gift."
the girl had hardly heard the words, ere a cry of amazement fell from her lips. she was eyeing the well-filled pocket-book with a burning gaze.
